by Lindy Zart
I live in one of the poorer sections of town, more in the lower middle class instead of upper, like here. Not that the flowers around my home can't compete with any shown here—they so can. Flowers are my mother's life and even if there is no other beauty found on our street, there is the majesty of her blossoms to pretty it up. But whereas the yards around here are perfect and orderly, ours is like a super-sized floral bouquet. Janet Bana's motto is this: Flowers make everything beautiful. In keeping with that belief, she plants perennials in the yards of those who will allow her to, and she sets flower baskets on the doorsteps of those who will not.
I agree that flowers are pretty and everything, but I think they hide what is ugly more than make everything beautiful, if that makes sense. The ugliness is still there, merely muted. Sort of like laughter to hide tears, kisses to snuff out doubt, holding something close to make yourself believe it will never go away—you know, delusions. And I know why she's planted so much recurring life into the lawn surrounding our house. She's not just trying to cover up the ugliness—she's trying to pretend it doesn't exist.
My footsteps slow as the two-story white house with plum accents comes into view. It has a colonial feel to it, strong and simple with pillars that frame a small porch. Red, pink, and white flowers that I water five days a week line the sidewalk up to the house, and green bushes reside before the house. So far I haven't killed any of the plants or flowers inside or outside of the house, so I consider that a plus.
In the two weeks that I have worked for the Young family, I have seen Mr. Young a total of one time. I usually get to the house around eight in the morning and stay until four. I realize some working people wouldn't be home during those hours of the day, but I get the sense that he is gone a lot more than he is around. Call it the disillusioned look in Monica's eyes as she speaks about her husband, or the emptiness of his touch on any part of the house. I see pieces of Rivers and Monica in her sweatshirt tossed over the back of a couch, a book I've witnessed Rivers reading left out on an end table, the scent of his deodorant or the smell of her perfume, but Thomas Young? Where is he?
Thinking these things, it makes sense that he is the one that answers the door at my knock. Tall and rangy in build, his hair is black and thick, his eyes dark, and the slant of his mouth is thin, showing how often he doesn't smile. Rivers is a slightly shorter, more muscular version of him, though his lips are fuller like his mom's and the shape of his eyes are reminiscent of hers as well. He also doesn't make me apprehensive like his father does. I'm not sure why I am so uncomfortable around him—maybe it's the unfriendly, I-am-better-than-you, angle of his face.
His Native American heritage is plain to see in his features and coloring; which I know because his son did a report on it in eighth grade. I remember this mostly because I was jealous that he was one half Native American, and one half German—whereas I, on the other hand, am a mixed breed of who knows what. My report was inconclusive due to the fact that I stopped at four nationalities instead of continuing on—which are Irish, Norwegian, German, and English. Apparently I am snobbish while drinking, tell Ole and Lena jokes, and have a bad temper. Who knew?
“Hello.” There is a quizzical cast to his face, like he cannot fathom what one such as I am doing on his front step. Dressed in red swimming trunks and a sleeveless gray shirt, it's a good guess he is either about to get into some kind of body of water or just got out.
“Hey.” I nod.
“Can I help you?”
“I clean your house.”
“It's Saturday.”
“Yep.” I rock back on my heels. “Hence why I am not cleaning your house today. So...is your wife home?”
He opens the door farther as he turns away, but I catch the suspicious cast to his eyes before they are hidden from me. He is wondering what I am up to, and he is positive I am up to something. “Yes. I was on my way out. She's in the sun room. I'm assuming you know where that is.”
“I clean it.”
“So you know where it is.”
My eyelids lower a little as I say slowly, “Yeah.” That was implied when I said I clean the room. If I didn't clean it, I wouldn't know where it is.
“Go on in,” he says, sounding exasperated.
“Got it.” I slide around him and into the entryway.
I pretty much love every part of this structure, but the foyer is my second favorite room of the house. It's spacious and has a bay window with plants resting along the ledge of it. The walls are alive with memories of the Young family and a well-preserved antique desk rests against one of them. Vibrant plants are scattered throughout the room. It has a sense of class and serenity, like the person who decorated it took a lot of care to make it soothing and appealing. It wasn't just an entryway to this person—it was the start of a haven. I imagine that person was Monica.
A partially open stairwell in white leads to the second floor, and directly across from where I stand is a level of the house, somewhat lower than the rest, that is made up of one massive entertainment room. It has a movie projector screen, gray leather furniture, a bar, a universal gym, and a pool table. I think it's technically Thomas' place to hang out because the interior is darker and more masculine than I imagine Monica would pick, based on the rest of the house. Whenever I want to find her, I always check the sun room first. She spends a lot of time in there, and I noticed Rivers does as well.
At first I found that odd because I figured the guys would band together to watch football and adjust themselves in the manly man room, but if I go by physical proximity alone, it seems like Rivers is closer to his mom than his father. It isn't like he really talks to anyone all that much. Although, I've at least seen him with his mother, whereas I don't recall ever seeing Thomas and Rivers near one another—not that I see much of Thomas anyway.
Throughout the house, the walls are painted in creams, grays, and whites, and there is an astounding amount of windows in every room to allow heaping doses of sunshine in, not to mention all the floors are wood. Putting all of that together, it has an open, sunny feel that has to fight with the melancholy seeping through the house in the form of beings. I still say the cheerfulness of the interior outweighs the dreariness of suffocating emotions.
A turn to the right is the living room and off of that is a small sanctuary—otherwise known as the sun room, and my most favorite room out of the whole place. I kick off my silver flip flops near the door and head in that direction.
Monica is curled up on a rust-colored couch with a book in her hands. She looks up as I approach, a smile taking over her mouth. “Delilah! What are you doing here? Isn't today your day off?”
“I'm a workaholic.” I sink into the recliner. “What are you reading?”
Pink floods her cheeks. “It's a book.”
“Got that part. What's it about?”
She tosses it across the room and I catch it. “'How To Get Your Child To Cope With Grief'.” I grimace. “You need a book to tell you how to do that? Can't you just, you know, hug him or something? Tell him everything will be all right? Make him soup?”
Sighing, she rubs her face. “No. Yes. Apparently. He isn't a complete mute, but he barely says a word to anyone. I don't know how to get through to him. You went to school with him, right? Maybe you could try talking to him.”
I hate to dash the hopeful gleam in her eyes, but I have to be upfront about this. I get to my feet as I say, “No. I can't talk to him. We weren't friends and we didn't talk in school. I don't think he even knows who I am.”
“But you're a friendly face at least. He has to remember you. Maybe it would work?”
“I'm really not a friendly face.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slump. She picks at the couch with her head lowered. The hopelessness swirling around her is thick and potent. I unconsciously take a step back as though to keep from catching it. When she looks up, she asks, “Was he unkind to you?” Her eyes almost beg me to say no.
I am instantly and one hundred percent un
comfortable. I get an image of Rivers strolling down the hallway of the school with his posse, one arm carelessly slung around Riley's shoulders. She's smirking like she has something everyone wants and she isn't going to let it go. I hate walking so close to them, but the hallway is crowded and I just happened to fall into the mass of adolescent bodies after they passed my locker. Their scents of money and popularity waft over me like a toxic ailment, the sound of their voices loud and boisterous. He looks over his shoulder, glancing at me and away as though I don't exist, and says something to Kent McPherson. They both laugh and keep walking down the hall as my footsteps slow and I realize how truly non-existent I am.
I take a calming breath and shake the memory away. Just months ago that was my life. Now this is. The only attention I got was when I opened my mouth, and I didn't like to do that unless I felt it necessary, mostly as a form of defense—so any attention I got was of the negative variety. High school is recently in the past and that is where I want it to stay, although the fact that I am in this house, thinking that, seems ironic, and a little stupid. Plus, talking about the way I was or wasn't treated by a fellow student isn't really something I want to discuss with that student's mom.
“Um...” I blow out a noisy breath. “He wasn't exactly, no, but the people he hung out with weren't the nicest.”
“And he never made them stop?” she guesses.
“Nope. But I honestly don't even think he was aware of it. Look, it's not a big deal,” I hurry to reassure her. “You know how high school is. People make fun of people. It's just the way it is.”
“It shouldn't be that way. Did you make fun of people?”
I fiddle with my ponytail. “No.”
Nodding, she says quietly, “I tried to teach him about respect and manners, but somehow that all got lost when he began to listen to his friends more than me. And his father...” she trails off. She shakes her head, the clouds clearing from her face. “Anyway, since you're here, would you like some iced tea? I was just about to make some.”
I accept, following her into the kitchen. Along with the lines of my job duties blurring, so have our roles as employee and employer. We almost seem like friends, but that can't be. If anything, I think she is lonely and worried and doesn't have anyone to reach out to, so I fill the hole the lack of companionship has formed inside her. I don't mind. I like Monica.
“Where is Rivers?” I ask as I watch her mix water and instant lemon iced tea together in a pitcher.
“Outside.”
I glance out the glass doors, but all I see is the chair he usually sits in—empty. “Are you sure? I don't see him.”
She turns to the door, a strange stillness to her. “I'm sure he was out there. Maybe he took a nap?” Even as she is saying this, she is striding from the room.
I have no such compulsion to search the inside of the house for him. I'm pretty sure I know where he is. I don't know how I know, but I do. Call it intuition. Call it understanding the workings of a person's broken mind. When you allow helplessness to take over your thoughts, you find yourself contemplating things you normally wouldn't, maybe even acting on them.
I sprint for the door and fling it open, racing toward the edge of the pool. The sun is instant fire on my skin, the air stolen from my lungs as the heat works away at me, instantly wilting me. I have time to think a single word—No—and then I am diving into the cool water. It's shockingly cold after being under the burning star in the sky. I find his form near the bottom of the deep end and my arms cut through the liquid in fast strokes. He isn't moving and I wonder how he is keeping himself weighted down. Then I see his fingers digging into a grate in the floor of the pool. Anger and sorrow rise within me, clashing against one another as I swim toward him. The water isn't that deep, but deep enough. Doesn't it only take two inches of water to drown? This is six feet of it.
He vehemently shakes his head as I reach him. I grab his arm and tug, and even though he is compromised, he is still stronger than me, easily eluding my efforts to rescue him. One hand shoves me away and the other refuses to let go of his possible form of demise. My lungs are struggling to expand and the chlorine is burning my eyes like liquid fire. I have always been a good swimmer, but my ability has never been tested like this before. I jab my finger up with my free hand, the nails of my other hand digging into his forearm. He jerks away and panic propels me closer to him.
I wrap my legs around his and squeeze as hard as I can, knowing this is a low blow, but I am desperate. My leg muscles are lean and strong from all the walking and biking I do and I use them in this moment without remorse. He spasms in pain, no longer resisting me. His fingers release the grate and I take advantage of his temporary incapicitation to wrap myself around him, and shove us up with only the muscles in my arms. They want to resist, feeling heavy and noodle-like, but I will not give up. It isn't even an option.
I navigate us through the water until we break the surface. I draw in a ragged breath of air, my chest heaving as I doggie paddle us to the shallow end of the pool. Rivers' heart thunders against my forearm. He is quiet and still against me. He's given up. Completely. Knowing that puts a sharp pain in my chest. I blink my eyes and refuse to think about it right now. My ears are plugged and it takes a moment for the shouts to sink in. Monica is wading into the pool, her arms outstretched.
She pulls her son from my arms. “What happened?” she cries. “What happened, Rivers? Are you okay? Is he okay?” She trains panicked eyes on me.
He tries to stand, but sways on his weak legs. I reach for him, firmly gripping his bicep within my hand. His eyes, usually so lifeless, are blazing with heat as they connect with mine.
Not breaking the visual connection, I tell his mom, “He fell.” His black eyes narrow, but otherwise there is no reaction to my words. I don't lie. Why did I just lie for him? Or was it for his mother? Maybe I lied for both of them.
“What? How? How do you know? How did this happen? I called the ambulance. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I was so scared.”
I blink water from my eyes and keep my tone even. One of us needs to be calm about this—my pounding heart tells me I am a better actress than I realized I was. “It's okay. It's good that you called the ambulance. They can check him out and make sure he's okay.”
Rivers' arm stiffens beneath my touch and I squeeze it hard. He will endure a physical examination so his mother can be confident he is truly all right—physically anyway. With the stunt he just pulled, he owes her that. It is also obvious that mentally he is not all right.
“Let's get out of the water. I think I hear the sirens. Why don't you meet them at the door, Monica, and explain the situation?”
She hesitates, her eyes locked on her son.
“It's okay,” I tell her soothingly. “I'll stay with Rivers.”
We manage to get Rivers onto the deck, and from there he struggles to a bench, each step slow and painful for him. Seeing his bare legs for the first time is shocking and I fight to not look away. I knew it must be bad, but I didn't know what to expect. He usually has them covered with a blanket, or wears lounge pants. Chunks of muscle are missing from the back of his left calf—jagged, mis-
matched areas of pink flesh the result of doctors patching his skin back up as best as they could.
The backside of his right leg has similar gashes of pale, angry flesh the length of his thigh with the skin around it puckered up in protestation of being sewn up in such a way. The consequences of being at the mercy of merciless boat blades is a collection of gouged-out flesh and scars that line almost every surface of his legs. The propeller made mincemeat out of his lower limbs.
He falls onto the bench and winces, maneuvering his body around so he can sit. That sympathetic part of me that I can't seem to shut off around him wants to help him and I clench my fingers against the urge. I know he wouldn't appreciate it anyway. I hate seeing people in pain and I finally have to look away from him. It literally makes me feel sick—my stomach gets all jumbled up and the urg
e to heave hits me, like now. It's like I can feel their pain with an empathetic knife into my very heart. I suck air through my lungs with jerky, shaky breaths.
Monica gently touches my shoulder, our eyes connecting, and then she walks toward the house to admit the EMTs. Her look was a silent thank you. I want to tell her I don't deserve a thank you for saving someone who doesn't want to be saved, for someone who won't even appreciate it because he doesn't appreciate his life. I want to tell her I didn't do anything to be thanked for. But she is already gone and my time is up.
I look at Rivers. His legs are straightened out in front of him and his features are twisted in pain, but even without the grimace on his face, it is contorted in ways it never used to be. He must have hit his head against something sharp as he fought for his life, maybe the underside of the boat or even a river rock—possibly an edge of a propeller blade. The left side of his face has a pink scar that starts under his eye and ends near the corner of his mouth. It's thick and angry looking, like the river was upset it didn't get more of him than it did, though it still managed to leave its mark. He's lucky. Two inches higher and it would have been his eye. Another healing gash goes from his left temple up to the crown of his head.
He isn't pretty anymore.
It has to bother him. The crowd he hung around with in school was all about looks. They had the right hairstyles, the right brand of clothes, the right faces and bodies. I'm surprised Riley even came to visit him with his body and face marred the way they are. Maybe she really does care about him. The thought causes me to blink and I shrug it off, turning my attention back to him. I wonder if he realizes how fortunate he is. I wonder if he cares. I sort of think he doesn't, what with tossing himself into the pool to drown and everything. And how shallow is that? To think your life is over because you don't look like you think you should. I wonder how I would be, in the same situation. Then I think of my current situation and I know I wouldn't be the way he is. I realize that is where we differ the most—I'm glad for every day I get, and he wishes the promise of a new dawn would fade into oblivion.
